topic of the Fanshaws. Once when they were studying geography, Mrs. Wixton pointedly said that they would focus on Brazil that day, and she turned her fusty old textbook to a section on the Amazon rain forest. The shiny, yellowed paper held some black-and-white photos of the jungle. Mrs. Wixton flipped through the pages, then stopped at a photo of a squat, thick-bellied man, wearing nothing but a cloth around his waist. In his hand was a limp, lifeless monkey, held by the scruff of its neck.
âFascinating place, the Amazon,â Mrs. Wixton said. âBut then you must know quite a bit about it.â
âWhy would I?â Roo asked irritably.
âBecause of her, â Mrs. Wixton said. âYour aunt. Mr. Fanshawâs late wife.â She was baiting Roo, trying yet again to glean some information about Uncle Emmett. But this time, Roo herself was interested.
âI never met her,â Roo said.
âBut you must have heard about her,â Mrs. Wixton pressed.
Roo shook her head, hating to admit it, yet hoping that Mrs. Wixton would tell her more.
âWell, she came from Brazil, apparently. A little village on the edge of the rain forest. Her name was Ana. Your uncle spotted her on one of his trips and was instantly smitten, or so the story goes.â Mrs. Wixton was clearly thrilled to be able to offer up information that Roo didnât have. âI saw her once in Clayton with Mr. Fanshaw. She was quite striking, with beautiful long black hair. But she had a wild look about her. I felt sorry for her, I actually did. Fish out of water. Though of course your uncle was so kind to her,â she added carefully. âAll that gossip after she passed away made me sick to my stomach.â
âWhat gossip?â Roo asked.
âOh, folks around here will say anything, especially if itâs about Summer People.â
âWhat did they say?â
âWell,â Mrs. Wixton began, rising off the bed for a moment to adjust her skirt, âsome people believe she was murdered.â She waited a beat to see that she had Rooâs full interest before she continued. âIt was because her death was so strangely sudden. She had been perfectly healthy and well, according to the people who had been working in this house. And then, quite out of the blue, she was dead. And to make matters worse, your uncle refused to speak about it. He immediately fired everyone who had been in the house, except Ms. Valentine. It made people suspicious.â
âWho do they think killed her?â Roo asked.
Mrs. Wixton now shifted on the bed, straightening her spine and crossing her legs. âOf course it was all malicious nonsense.â
âThey donât think it was my uncle, do they?â Roo asked, shocked. Her uncle had seemed cold and hard, but killing his own wifeâ¦she couldnât imagine it.
âHow did we get on this topic in the first place?â Mrs. Wixton looked at Roo as if it had been her idea. âOkay, hocus-pocus, letâs try to focus.â She patted the pages of the textbook.
Â
As the days wore on, Rooâs captivity became harder and harder for her to bear. The bright spring light teased at her through the windows. She ached to be outside. The sun was melting deeper into the ground, waking everything up. The earth would be singing by now, and she was missing it! A hundred times a day she felt ready to bolt out of the room, fly down the stairs, and run outside to freedom. But the threat of being sent back to the Burrows kept her rooted. Gradually she began to feel sleepy and slow witted. Her pencil would droop in her hand while her mind wandered, though when Mrs. Wixton jolted her with a small shake and asked her what she was daydreaming about, she couldnât remember.
She was glad for any time outdoors, even if she was under constant guard by Mrs. Wixton. As soon as she felt the sun on her skin she awoke. She ran around the island, knowing that